


hold my heart (it's beating for you anyway)

by xylodemon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mating, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name is Stiles, and it's nothing like Derek expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold my heart (it's beating for you anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the tags on [this gifset](http://lielabell.tumblr.com/post/31474473823/when-derek-was-young-his-parents-always-talked).

Born werewolves have mates, Derek understands this much by the time he's ten years old. His family talks about it a lot, because finding that mate is important, one of the most important parts of a werewolf's life. It comes up at dinner, during television commercials, as the sun sets on the full moons, and Derek is curious, has endless questions, mostly _who_ and _how_ and _when_. His mother just winks and says he will know, that he will _know_ , drawing the word into a slow smile that makes Laura scrunch up her face and laugh.

It should sound scary and strange -- that there's someone he's meant to be with, that it's supposed to last forever -- but Derek isn't afraid of it. He wants it before he's really old enough, finds himself waiting for it, almost looking for it, watching his classmates in the halls, staring at the people he passes on the streets. He sometimes worries that he wants it too much, but his father shrugs and says that's just how werewolves are. That they feel like they're missing a piece, can't settle until they find the person who fills it, the person who will support them and challenge them, make them stronger.

Derek stops caring after the fire, tries to forget about it. The instinct is still there, a careful itch in the back of Derek's mind, but he ignores it as much as he can, hides it underneath all the other things he doesn't want to remember. The idea of a mate is something left over from his other life, and Beacon Hills will always reek of smoke, will always look like Peter's scars and the soft curve of Kate's mouth.

He only goes back because of Laura. To find her killer and put what's left of her body to rest. He doesn't plan on staying, on getting caught up in anything, on letting his guard down long enough to get arrested. He's standing over Laura's empty grave when the cops arrive, his hands clenched at his sides, his feet slowly sinking into the soft dirt. Everything stinks like wolfsbane and death, and Derek is shaking with rage, with the urge to shift and fight his way into the woods. One of kids he caught trespassing climbs into the cruiser, smelling human and nervous; his eyes are wide and brown and determined, and Derek wants to rip through the fencing between them, sink his teeth into the kid's throat.

Stiles. The kid's name is Stiles. His name is Stiles, and it's nothing like Derek expected.

His mother said he would _know_ , but there's no punch in the gut, no slap to the face. It's just Stiles pushing under Derek's skin like a splinter, filling up the hollow corners of Derek's mind, worming into the cracks between Derek's anger and frustration, the cold shock of Laura's death. It's Derek's hand itching for the back of Stiles' neck, his nose dipping for the sweep of Stiles' collarbone, his body turning toward the door before Stiles walks into the room. It creeps in quietly, so quietly Derek doesn't realize what's happened until it's already too late. Until there's no way he can avoid Stiles completely. He needs Scott's help to find the Alpha, and Scott and Stiles come as a package deal. 

Derek paces the house when he's alone, snarls at shadows when he runs in the woods. His aunt Martha once told him this would be the happiest time of his life, and he would laugh if he wasn't so close to losing his mind, if his heart wasn't constantly beating in his throat. Stiles is too much of everything -- too much motion and noise, too many scents for Derek's nose to sort out. He smells like sweat and skin and grass, sometimes sour with sadness, often sharp with the buzzing, jittery arousal Derek remembers from fifteen-sixteen-seventeen, and beneath all that he smells like sleep and warmth and home and pack, like a hundred other comforting things Kate turned into a threat.

Stiles is young. Human. In love with a girl Derek has never really met. The last one bothers Derek the most, feels like blood under his claws, meat caught between his teeth.

He wants Stiles to leave him alone, can't stand the thought of Stiles getting hurt. He tries to chase Stiles off, growing and shouting, shoving Stiles into walls, flashing his eyes and fangs, letting his claws prick through the sleeve of Stiles' shirt, but Stiles isn't scared of him anymore, not the way people usually are. It's an abstract kind of fear, like a shark attack or a plane crash or falling down a well, something that could happen, maybe, to someone else, probably not him, and it's overshadowed by his loyalty to Scott, his impulse to protect his father from all the things he doesn't know.

"Stay out of this," Derek tells him -- once, twice, more times than he can count, but dismissal is just as useless as threats. Stiles is too stubborn, too stupidly protective, and he dislikes Derek enough to be defiant on general principle. He shows up everywhere, smelling frightened and determined, often when Derek is at his lowest, when Derek is cornered or injured or dying; he rushes into danger without any thought, complains that Derek is a nuisance as he drives them away from the scene of the latest crime, as Derek bleeds all over the jeep, as he keeps Derek from drowning.

Derek is shaking when Scott pulls them out of the pool, his nerves rubbed thin and raw from two straight hours with Stiles, from Stiles' weight pressed against his back, Stiles' arms wrapped around his waist, Stiles' open mouth touching the back of his neck. From the sharp, aching breath Stiles took just as his strength started to fail. He never stopped trying to push Derek to the surface, even after he slipped under himself. Derek's chest feels tight as Scott props him up against the diving board; he stares up at Stiles and shivers, can't make himself look away.

"You turned your back on it," Stiles says carefully, crouching between Derek's legs, too close, too close. The skin under his eyes is the color of ash, and his track suit is making a puddle on the deck. "Why did you turn your back on it?"

Derek doesn't have an answer to that. Not an answer Stiles would want to hear. His instinct to protect his mate is stronger than his instinct to protect himself, but he can't explain that to Stiles, doesn't dare, wouldn't know where to start if he did. His pulse spikes sharply enough that Scott turns around and frowns, his eyes amber and narrowed, and Derek waves them off with a grunt, watches Scott lead Stiles outside with a sour taste in his mouth and his claws biting into the meat of his thighs.

He dreams of Stiles that night, of fucking Stiles in the jeep, of sucking Stiles off in his bed, sunlight streaming through the window Derek uses as a door, and then of watching television on the couch, Stiles sprawled on top of him and not-quite napping, Stiles' hand on his chest and Stiles' head under his chin, and he wakes up hard and sweaty, very close to terrified. He understands arousal. Understands hands on his skin, the urge to put his dick someplace warm. He wants to touch Stiles, wants to push him down and spread him open, suck dark bruises onto his neck, kiss the long line of his throat, but he also wants to fall asleep next to Stiles, hear him breathe, listen to the familiar rabbit-mumble of his heart. He hasn't cared about that kind of thing in years, since he was fifteen, still wondering if his mate was the girl who sat behind him in Algebra, the boy who worked the register at the video store. Since he went looking and found Kate.

He had wanted Kate too. Wanted her desperately. Had liked the sounds she made, the arch of her back, the way her fingers felt twisting into his hair. She smelled content when they were together, salty and sweet at once; he never realized she was just smug, pleased that her plan was coming together.

Stiles smells like home and pack and mate. It gets stronger every day, curling into Derek's nose, following him home, pestering him when he's training his pack, when he's trying to sleep.

They spend an hour on the floor of the sheriff's station, lying shoulder to shoulder, Stiles rambling about Matt's connection to the kamina while Derek tries to claw the poison from his system. He can move his feet, flex his hands at the wrists. Stiles snorts out a laugh when Derek tells him this, the sound tired and thin, strangely companionable, and it makes Derek think of what his parents had. Their easy affection, the strength they found in each other, the way they spoke without words. He wants that. Wants it with Stiles. Wants it badly enough he thinks he's willing to try.

Except that he can't. He doesn't know how and he doesn't have time. His pack is falling apart, the kamina is still on the loose, and then Stiles shows up to Gerard's ambush with the one thing Derek has been trying to forget: Lydia.

The darkness in the warehouse amplifies everything. Derek can smell the sweat at Stiles' throat, the blood under the bruises on his face, can hear the soft hitches in Stiles' breathing, the slick catch of Stiles' tongue wetting his lips. Lydia is beautiful; Derek never really noticed before. He glances at Stiles as Lydia runs over to Jackson, as Lydia kisses him, and the aching, wounded look on Stiles' face is like a knife to the ribs, the punch to the gut he always expected.

Derek's mouth still tastes like Gerard's blood. Stiles is ten feet to his left and a million miles away.


End file.
